


That future made us ghosts

by skullage



Series: not another high school au [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullage/pseuds/skullage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe she's sick of being the voice of reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That future made us ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> come find me at pughat.tumblr.com!

Even though it’s Tony’s idea to celebrate graduation with a “week long vay-kay to integrate into the college lifestyle”, and his idea to rent a van to get everyone to his parents’ beach house, he ditches them in order to drive his eighteenth birthday present with Pepper and Rhodey riding shotgun, while everyone else barely survives the disaster that is Thor’s older brother behind the wheel for the entire five hour journey.

Natasha spends the whole time squashed in the back of the van between Bruce and Thor, whose shoulder-width is no joke, near enough to Sam that they can talk without having to shout, far enough away from Steve and Bucky that she doesn’t have to watch them make doe-eyes at each other, and within Clint’s eyeline so that when he switches his hearing aids off he can still see her hands when she signs, even though he spends the last three hours dead asleep and drooling on Jane’s shoulder. Once the plan started to circulate through the group and the idea that significant others should be invited, or dragged along, wasn’t immediately shot out of the sky, six people became nine became fourteen, fifteen with Loki, the only one that could legally drive a van big enough to be a bus. Steve brought Bucky, but no one was surprised enough to argue, and Clint invited Kate who invited America, along with the unspoken addition of Sam and Jane, and Sharon who was asked along, to everyone’s surprise except Natasha’s, by Bruce. The Party Vacation turned into the logistical nightmare of fitting all eleven of them, minus Tony’s posse, into Loki’s shag-wagon, which only had eight seats and not enough room for all of them plus the truly impressive amount of beer and spirits for a bunch of underage high school graduates, to comfortably fit.

Against all odds, four detours, and at least half a dozen threats to Loki’s life--most of which are made by Thor but backed vehemently by everyone else--they arrive in Miami with a result of zero casualties. By the time Tony, Rhodey, and Pepper greet them out the front of the Stark’s sprawling beachside manor, the sun starts to set and casts a glow over the rest of the town half a mile in the distance, a sight lost in the mad scramble for the best room. Natasha waits it out with a glass of Tony’s proffered champagne, which is either a celebration of getting there alive or just Tony’s way of kicking off an afternoon, the result is the same in the end. What the rest of them fail to acknowledge is that the beach house is one of the many Stark properties sprawled across the east coast, and as such all the rooms have the same exquisite intrinsic value. Just like the manor Tony lives and throws all his post-game, birthday, it’s the weekend and no excuse necessary parties in, the beach house is offensively modern in its simplicity while at the same time regal and imposing. Natasha stands in the main room watching the sun play across the water as Rhodey, a few years older and accustom to the college party experience already, lounges in the hot tub set in the balcony that overlooks a Rushmore-inspired drop into the ocean. Tony does the honor of a house tour and Pepper pours frozen bellinis. By the time Natasha’s downed her champagne and three cocktails, now stretched across a deck chair, the desire to punch someone, probably Loki, mellows into a nice buzz, warmed by the heat and the laughter that spills into late into the night.

//

At some point in the first night, Thor goads Natasha into a game of Vorspiel, which turns into three before everyone else joins in, and by midnight the hot tub is overflowing with all the bodies crammed into it. Bucky’s hair is sopping wet from when he pushed his head into the water trying to clean the makeup off, and Clint, wearing his makeover with pride, pulls him into a headlock while Natasha redoes his eyeliner. 

“I hate this game,” Bucky says, mullish but subdued by the thread of being pulled ass-over-tit into the tub.

“I instagrammed that photo of you, by the way,” Clint says, almost lost under Tony’s rant about property damage. “I captioned it ‘Buddy’ so Thor will know it’s you.”

Bucky tries to bury his head in the water but Natasha forces him back up, eyeliner in hand. “Hold still. This shit is waterproof and expensive.”

Behind them, Jane’s complaining about the handprints on her ass. “But I wasn’t even playing,” she says, rubbing the redness away while Thor tries to kiss it better.

//

Tony’s house is spacious enough that Natasha walks past five rooms and counts only half a dozen people. He walks in on her lounging in an egg chair hanging suspended from the ceiling in what could most aptly be called a games room, with enough iPads for their entire senior class, while Sam and Steve hash out their alpha male status in a game of Modern Warfare. Bruce, who swore off video games after the last “incident”, plays with Tony’s child-sized superplexus, as if that will sustain his chill.

“Quite the playground you have here, Stark,” Natasha says. She puts her feet up on one of the functionally minimalist, white quilted leather armchairs.

“Oh, this?” Tony makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the space, the tv that takes up an entire wall, the assortment of arcade machines, the collection of custom Gibson guitars stashed in the corner and abstract art decorating the walls interspersed with pop culture memorabilia and what is probably an original Lichtenstein. “I had a hand in the design. Mostly, you know, the cosmetics. By the way, who’s the new guy?”

Natasha glances at the three other people in the room. Sam and Steve have devolved into playful shoving, which is really just an excuse to touch each other without Steve needing Bucky’s permission. Bruce is playing Robot Unicorn Attack on one of the iPads, a masochistic exercise in stress-desensitization. “Dude, am I in a Mac store right now? You could fund the entire US Army with the money for all of these iPads.”

“Focus, Romanoff. The tall one, fake English accent, could be Snape’s illegitimate love child?  
Also, who says we don’t already?” Tony’s got a screwdriver in his hand and he gravitates toward the light switch, which he breaks open to get to the wiring.

“That’s Loki, he drove.”

“And he’s still here why?”

“The copious amounts of alcohol might give you a clue,” Bruce says, mashing buttons on an iPad and cursing with the same intensity Sam and Steve are paying to fighting America’s next great simulated war.

“I dunno, man, he seemed pretty interested in those jellyfish,” Sam says, before he does something that causes Steve to swear and throw down the controller.

“Jellyfish,” Tony repeats. He pulls the wires out like an impromptu round of home renovations, twisting them and stuffing them back in while Natasha watches and waits for the moment the chaos builds to a frenzy when Bruce breaks more equipment or Tony electrocutes himself or Sam and Steve turn from play-fighting to making out. None of that happens, though; Natasha sighs.

“He took some jumper cables, a car battery, and a bunch of other stuff from your workshop, so whatever he’s doing to his car is going to be either hilarious or catastrophic.”

“Who am I going to blame when it all goes awry?”

“Well, he’s Thor’s brother. Blame him.” Natasha contemplates falling asleep in the egg chair amid the overpowering testosterone in the room. She’s starting to feel cooped up after only a day, bored of the monochrome furniture and sporadic LED lighting.

“So you didn’t just hitch a ride with the first seedy van rando who came your way?”

“Who do you think I am?” Natasha asks, not entirely offended.

“If I knew the first thing about you,” Tony says, fitting the lightswitch cover back on, “I might be able to answer that. There, that was the last of the monitors. You can all go about your business, as you were.”

Natasha’s already at the door when she pauses, sticks her back through. “Excuse you? Monitors?”

“Oh, my dad bugged the place with an auditory monitoring system a few years ago. Initially it was all cameras but I kept uninstalling them until he pretty much ragequit the whole idea.” Tony taps the screwdriver against his chin. “He forgot about the audio bugs, but I just hadn’t gotten around to them. Oh, and Pepper’s taking lunch orders from that bistro in town, get whatever you want, it’s all going on the company card.”

Tony’s out just as quickly as he came in, whistling, trailing Bruce behind him like an overwhelmed puppy. Natasha shakes her head to clear it of the last ten minutes, already set on an afternoon of Арктида and mimosas. Sam’s staring over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Can you believe this is an actual person we know?” Natasha asks.

“I can’t believe most of the shit you guys get up to,” he says, and that pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the week.

//

The third morning brings the smells of a cooked breakfast and Natasha’s stomach howls her agreement for the frying bacon that draws her from an empty, restless sleep into the kitchen. It’s still early enough that the house is quiet, the kitchen table empty, breakfast bench occupied only by America, who’s already in her bikini, and Clint, who never sleeps well away from home. Natasha was awoken in the middle of the night by the noise of him skyping with his dog, and then fell back asleep before the homesick crying started.

She’s never been that good with people, and only slightly better at trusting her own feelings. If the widening distance between her and Clint that feels like a month-long breakup, which started when Clint’s acceptance letters showed up, turns out to be exactly that, Natasha would rather sleep through it and find out later if their friendship endured. Even though he hasn’t opened the letter yet, the possibility that they might be apart for that long hangs over her. 

He raises his coffee mug in greeting. Natasha signs, _Morning, idiot_ , because he's literally got egg on his face. The egg coupled with his bed-head and oversized hoodie he stole from her that she stole from Bucky is making her sick with infatuation. He's very cute. She's still not used to it. 

"Surf's in," he says, before chugging his coffee. 

"Spring break," Natasha says, mimicking his cadence. 

"Tits out," America continues, without glancing up from the phone in her hand. Kate's phone, she tells them as she changes the background pic from a dejected-looking pug to a photo of her own cleavage. Natasha congratulates her on her cleavage and takes a seat, grunting thanks to the tall British guy serving her breakfast. 

"Tony has his own man servant," Clint says, almost disbelieving. "I still have to clean up my dog's poop." 

"I've seen you cook a three-course meal for your dog, Clint. Is there anything you wouldn't do for Lucky?"

Clint smirks, leaning close to whisper in Natasha's ear, "Nope," in a way that makes her shiver, makes her jealous, of all things, of anything that gets that much of Clint's attention when she's his girlfriend. It's a stupid and childish feeling that sours the intensity of his closeness. 

The kitchen fills up quickly, with food and with people and the conspicuous absence of Bucky, who isn't one for either of those things, or mornings, or sunlight, except when coffee is involved. Clint, who's the opposite, has gone back for thirds, shovels down food with one hand while fingerspelling with the other in order to maximise food intake while he fills her in on updates from back home, how Lucky's doing, his dad's vegetable patch, his mom's overtime, all the normal parts of life that she discovers all over again through Clint's eyes. The result is a lot of half-spelled words mixed with their own shorthand, a sort of personalised morse code that's developed over years of knowing each other, and even then it's almost too much for Natasha's pre-morning coffee brain to understand. 

America stares, looking scandalised. "Okay, I like to think I can at least speak conversational signage, but I understood like two per cent of that."

Natasha shrugs. "You get used to it."

"Did you say karaoke or eukaryotes, because either way that's a lame drink-cation."

Clint rolls his eyes but is saved from having to bother by Kate, who distracts America with a kiss and a hand on her thigh. 

The sight of such unselfconscious affection stirs something in Natasha's chest. She watches Kate's delicate fingers bite into the skin of America's inner thigh and thinks about the last time she and Clint fucked, over a week ago, how they'd been watching a marathon of Alaska Loggers when Clint nuzzled into her neck, no doubt turned on by the raw masculine intensity of chopping wood in a logging chaingang and life off the grid. The night before, Natasha had struck out with a sorority girl at a mixer who had broad shoulders and a taste for red wine that colored her lips. Whatever misgivings that had plagued her about her thing with Clint winding down, organically like the way icebergs are formed before they tear apart the hulls of ships, Natasha had given in and let feeling good take over. 

Clint dumps his plate in the kitchen sink, says, "Tony's got some wetsuits and boards, I'm gonna take a shower, meet you down there later," in a rush that's more expectation than invitation, and kisses her temple before he leaves. Later he'll come back smelling of sweat and seawater and Natasha leans in, anticipating it. 

//

"Well, the surf is definitely in."

Sharon laughs below her, shoulder brushing Natasha's calf where she's sitting crosslegged in the sand, the both of them watching the waves cascade against each other, tossing the wetsuited figures off their boards. Clint is out there, nothing if not focused, moving with the violence of the ocean, getting back up every time he's knocked off. 

Sharon pats the ground beside her and Natasha weighs the task of having to wash sand out of her leggings with the force of the wind and the shelter of Sharon's body heat. 

"Not going in?" Natasha drops into the sand, hugging her limbs close. 

Sharon shakes her head. "No way, I have common sense. They're getting murdered out there."

They're kind of getting murdered right here. Natasha's eyes sting from the wind, her hair a mess, sand already creeping into uncomfortable places. Farther down the beach, a group of five toss a volleyball across a net that rips free from its moorings and collapses in on itself. 

"The sea has neither meaning nor pity."

Sharon flashes an impressed smile. "You've read Chekhov?"

Natasha shrugs. "All Russians are born with a humbling fear of the ocean and innate knowledge of Chekhov."

Sharon narrows her eyes like she can't be sure if Natasha's making fun, but her smile is cajoling, her tone goodnatured. "So no swimming either, then."

"Not unless it was prophesized in the first act."

"Good, you can keep me company." 

Sharon laughs, cheeks dimpling. It's only eight thirty in the morning and Natasha hasn't had enough to drink to justify the heat that coils in her stomach like temptation, and if she was a better person she'd have enough willpower to leave or at least draw her eyes away from the curve of Sharon's shoulders. In her head Bucky, the poster child for prospering bisexuality, is mocking her for what he'd call a half-assed sexual awakening, but Natasha's chalking it up to a plain, boring, everyday identity crisis topped with a fear of what the future is going to bring and what kind of person she might be when it does. It's significantly less fun for her when Bucky's life is no longer a complete mess, now that he's happy in his relationships. She can't distract herself by mocking him, or even garner solidarity. 

Sharon draws her knees up against the wind and her skirt slips down to reveal more of her thighs. 

"Cute bikini," Natasha says, and then, after losing control of her higher brain function, "now I'm wishing I brought mine," which is a lie. She doesn't own a bikini. The word sounds strange coming out of her mouth. 

"Thanks. I've never owned one before but look at this--" Sharon leans away and flips the hem of her skirt up to reveal the scalloped detail on her bikini bottoms. "Cute, right?"

"Totally," Natasha says automatically. Whatever expression she's supposed to make--surprise, friendly delight--her face doesn't make it. She's scowling too much from general self-loathing and the sand whipping her skin. She reminds herself she's too Russian to be impressed, with too many teenage hormones not to feel like shit about herself.

"I was kind of nervous about coming here even though Bruce--" Sharon starts, before Natasha says, "I have to go," effectively ruining the moment mid-sentence. 

"Okay, I'll see you," Sharon calls after her. Natasha's already climbing the sandstone steps set into the base of the cliff, the ones that just keep going for what feels like days until she can no longer hear the pounding in her ears over whatever techno synth Tony has playing in the beach house. 

She's about ready to curl into bed, but the thought of being by herself is as appealing as going back to the beach and making an ass out of herself. Instead she stalks from room to room until she finds her target in the space he's claimed, doing pushups amid a mess of clothes that look as though he and Steve have been squatting in Tony's house for a week. Despite the amount of times she's heard Death Cab For Cutie playing through the wall the night before, it's more likely due to their combined laziness than whatever fit of passion that had them disappearing halfway through the _Blade Trilogy_ marathon. 

Sometimes Natasha creeps herself out with how well she knows people. 

"Oh my god," she says, feigning shock and awe, "exercise? Oh, James. What has Steve done to you."

Bucky turns his head and glares from under the wispy strands of hair that fall from his bun, but the force of it is lost due to the fact that he's wearing his hair in a bun. "Ugh, you found me."

"He's broken you, hasn't he. Oh, no, he's _tamed_ you."

Bucky blows the hair out of his eyes, pausing his reps. His muscles strain and his shirt clings tighter to his body than it would've six months ago. "Sit on my back, would you?"

Natasha obliges, tucking her legs under her and using her dancer's coordination to balance as Bucky continues. "So this is what you do now, huh?"

"It's all about looking good for the ladies." He answers in halted breaths, counting his reps. 

“That would make Steve your beard.”

“Come on, doll,” Bucky says, glancing over his shoulder with a coquettish look, “you know you’re my one and only beard.”

Natasha pulls her lips back in a snarl. “Honestly, how does he put up with your dumb ass?”

“Must be my roguish charm.” He collapses onto the ground when his persistence gives out, and Natasha rolls off him, lying next to him on her back. Since it’s Tony’s house it stands to reason that the carpet would be softer than her own bed back home and expensive enough she almost feels bad about tracking sand across it. Bucky continues, “Anyway, you would know, you’ve stuck around.”

“Would I? It’s mostly just out of habit.” She makes a face to show she’s kidding and Bucky laughs. It’s a good look on him, this carefree attitude that was buried under mountains of grief and low self-esteem. He’s doing better now and whatever decent part of her is still kicking around is glad for him.

//

“This is a safe space,” Sam says, all reassurance and assertive charm, “nothing said here will leave this room. No judgements, just love.”

Natasha’s only on her fourth margarita and she decides that Sam is just too good looking. In fact, every single person in the circle is, and together they make the perfect mix of hot nerds and hot jocks and hot nerdjocks and hot assholes that somehow, mostly by accident, banded together to weather the storm of senior year. If Natasha herself wasn’t so fine, or assured of her ability to choke out a grown man with her thighs, she would wonder how she ended up here too.

“What is this, bikram yoga?” Tony shouts, at the same time Rhodey calls out, “Spin the damn bottle, Wilson.” No one questions why Rhodey started this, or why they’re all crowded in the living area playing spin the bottle like it’s a last desperate attempt to hold onto their youth under the strain of impending adulthood.

“Bikram sounds fun, actually,” Rhodey says, and beside him Pepper nods, says, “I could go for a session,” which just makes Tony madder. Sam does eventually spin the bottle with another sincere, non-judgemental look around the room. He’s wearing sweats and he’s been cultivating a moustache that’s thin but suits him, and when he locks eyes with her, she smiles around her straw and thinks _yeah_.

To her left, Bucky’s sitting butterfly-pose with his head buried in his own crotch, and to her right, Clint’s tipped his head back, gazing up at Kate as she feeds twizzlers into his mouth. It was Natasha’s idea not to be exclusive and in two and a half years she’s never gone back on it, not after the half-a-dozen hook ups that left her feeling as though she didn’t have enough love for one person, let alone four or five. Maybe that’s still true. Maybe she's sick of being the voice of reason, not that anyone would call her that.

Clint’s never been with anyone else, and he’d tell her if he did, if he was interested in anything other than reruns of American Pickers or his dog or mastering the art of falling from low places and almost injuring himself. Sometimes Natasha gets scared that she’ll never love with the same simple intensity the way that Clint loves her, like it comes so naturally to him, but that scares her, too. 

One day, probably soon, they’ll be far away from each other and she won’t be able to tell with just a glance what he’s thinking, or feel it tapped in their morse code against her skin; she’ll have to wait in line behind Lucky to see him on skype.

The room is too large for all the people in it, too small for what their proximity brings out in her. Natasha sets her drink down to rest her hand over Clint’s, holding her breath until she feels his fingers squeeze.

The rest of the night devolves into a carnivalesque charade of debauchery that would make Bakhtin proud, and by the time she’s four tequila shots down and teaching Tony how to plié on the pool table, the rest of them are engrossed in playing a game that involves a pyramid of beer, several chairs, and a rendition of Star Spangled Banner sung by a raucously drunk Steve Rogers.

//

Natasha finds Pepper interesting because being around her is like being in the eye of a tropical storm. Pepper’s chopping up fruit and tossing it in the blender and talking as fast as the rotors spin.

“It’s very spiritual, all that energy, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Right. The experience,” Natasha says, chewing on a celery stick in anticipation of the bloody marys to come. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I love a traditional massage, but there’s something about Raiki that really opens you up, you know?”

Natasha wouldn’t have thought of Pepper as a spiritual person before she saw the suitcase full of incense and candles that change color as they burn and massage oils Pepper swears are for purely therapeutic use, but she’s been letting her roots grow out and now that finals are over she seems happier, less occupied with the fifteen clubs and committees to micromanage. It must be the energy.

America glances over her bare feet resting on the breakfast bar. “Is that the one where they don’t touch you?”

Pepper smiles, sweet and a little sheepish. Given the chance, America would eat her alive. Or try, at least. Natasha’s seen Pepper cut down every teacher that gave her a less than satisfactory grade. “It’s relaxing.”

“My cousin knows a guy in San Fran who’ll drop snakes on your ta-tas, real cheap, too.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Natasha says, dry as a bone. “Pepper?”

“You gotta supply your own snakes though.”

Pepper tries to hide a smile behind her frozen margarita. “Plans after graduation, Nat?”

“Oh, you know,” Natasha says, drawing out the words. “I’m thinking of going into business in offshore oil drilling. Get in on the game before it’s too late.”

“Sounds lucrative,” Pepper says, and starts the blender up again.

Natasha kicks her bar stool out and stalks across the kitchen to where Bucky’s swearing at the oven, red-faced and sweating, a wooden spoon in one hand and a mixing bowl tucked under his arm.

“What the fuck, James.” She can’t hide the glee in her voice, but then again, she’s not trying all that hard. One of the perks of being a friend of Bucky’s is that she’s rarely bored.

Bucky doesn’t bother to tear his eyes away from the cookbook in front of him to glare at her, and she’d almost be offended if she wasn’t so amused. The book doesn’t look intimidated. It looks like it’s seen better days, times when it wasn’t splattered with wet fingerprints and flecks of batter. 

“Help, or get out of my kitchen space.” Bucky mashes the batter with the kind of force no pre-baked goods should have to endure. 

“The secret ingredient is love.”

“ _Out_.”

“Oh no, I’m not missing this. I should call Ripley’s.”

Bucky shoves the bowl into her hands when she jumps onto the counter and searches through the cupboards for things he pulls out seemingly at random.

“What are you making? It looks terrible.”

“Pineapple upside-down cake.” He’s too frustrated to appreciate how ridiculous those words sound coming out of his mouth, but Natasha, who thrives on dysfunction and other people’s raised blood pressure, only shakes her head and swipes the side of the bowl with a finger.

“It tastes terrible, too.”

Bucky yanks the bowl back and continues to stir with a vigor that makes Natasha appreciate why Steve’s always in such a good mood.

“That’s not helping. That falls into the ‘get out of my kitchen space’ category, not the ‘help’ category.”

“It’s 2015, binaries are over.”

“Every time you talk, something useful falls out of my head and I lose my place.”

“It has four ingredients,” she says. Bucky glares again, his signature move. “The instructions are on the pineapple tin.” Bucky continues to glare. “You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”

He rolls his eyes in disgust and it breaks their staring contest. “I’m trying to do something nice, here.”

Across the room, Clint’s up on a coffee table, draped in a curtain and reciting lines from Othello while Sharon and Sam sword fight with sabres from Tony’s fencing collection.

It occurs to Natasha that she isn’t very good at relating to people who aren’t Bucky without trying to sleep with them. It’s possible she doesn’t know how. Her sexuality isn’t a weapon so much as a commodity she uses to form attachments. Bucky is the only person she’s close to that she hasn’t tried sleeping or aggressively flirting with. That says something about their relationship, about them as people. More about her standard of friendship.

“Good luck with that.” Natasha picks a lump of batter from Bucky’s hair, feeling suddenly maternal. “Generous is a good look on you.”

He doesn’t have time to respond before she pushes off the counter and leaves him to whatever disasters he’s cultivating, but that’s the point. If nothing else, Natasha knows when to make her exit.

//

“Okay, so: track, high jump, gymnastics--” He tosses popcorn into the air and catches it in his mouth.

Natasha nods after each one, adds, “Hurdles,” and Sam continues, “--hurdles, three hundred metre?”

“One hundred.”

“What else?”

“Lacrosse for a bit. Ju jitsu, still. Oh, and I did ballet for about twelve years.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise like he’s impressed. “Damn, girl. Like you couldn’t get into any college you wanted with a resume like that. A scholarship, at least.”

Natasha lifts her shoulder and lets it drop. It’s almost too much effort to shrug, out here where the sun shines like hell’s worst day and the concrete balcony burns her feet. Squashed side-by-side on a sun lounge that could fit at least three Steves, Sam’s skin warms her up even better than the heat, thawing out the last pieces of her early childhood spent scrounging bear skins and burning furniture just to stay alive in the winter. She’d throw herself on her own funeral pyre rather than go back to the cold.

“I know fourteen different ways to incapacitate someone using just my thumbs. Maybe there’s a market for that.”

Sam lips quirk in appreciation. “You’re a mysterious one, that’s for sure.”

Natasha squirms under the scrutiny, feeling, of all things, shy. She’s not even trying, and she didn’t plan this, but now he’s here, next to her, she can’t help recoil from his attention. He’s getting close to who she really is and it scares her.

“You know what we need?”

“What do we need.” 

“Some pot. Wait here.”

She all but jumps up and sprints across the concrete to the safety of the inside tiles, cooling her singed feet, and slides the glass door closed behind her to keep the cold air in. Almost everyone is spread out across the couches with their attention on the the tv the size of the living room wall, but beyond that, closer to the hallway, she can hear music pumping slowly from Bucky’s room, organs and acoustic drumming that for once doesn’t include Ben Gibbard’s dull whine. She knocks loud enough on the door that they’ll know she means business, barks, “Open up, little piggies.” Because she’s gracious, she gives them a minute before she barges in. 

Steve sits up immediately, looking scandalized even if he is under the covers. He’s got his arm around Bucky, who’s dozing on Steve’s chest, sleepy enough that he only groans in annoyance at the intrusion and pulls the covers over his head.

“Aw, look at this love nest.” She may still be drunk from lunch but she manages not to trip over the piles of clothing scattered around like fallen soldiers on her way to the bed, where she throws herself onto Bucky’s legs. If her entrance didn’t rouse him, that sure did.

“Ugh, what. _What_.”

The bed bounces with her fall, and Steve slips subtly off it to retrieve his pants. “Natasha,” he says, seeming more resigned than put out, almost as if he expects this behavior from them. Natasha smiles up at him.

“Nice to hear you’ve updated your sex playlist. Death Cab was grating on my ear drums.”

Steve shrugs. “Glad we could help with that.”

"You shoulda thought of that before you gave it to me," Bucky says, more a mumble into his pillow than actual words. 

"Well if I'd known it would be used for such nefarious purposes."

The music plays on, a voice crooning, _is there anything I could do, just to get some attention from you_. Bucky hits her with a pillow.

“Are you here for a reason or just to drain the life force from my soul?”

“Please,” Natasha scoffs, “you don’t have a soul. I’m here for your pot. You brought some, right?”

“How do you know?” He seems almost affronted. Natasha gives him a look that conveys her next _please_ even better than verbalizing it. “I was saving it for our last night.”

She sighs, and claims Steve’s newly vacated spot, close enough to prod Bucky with her feet. “Fine, whatever.”

Steve edges towards the door, shirt in hand. “I’ll just,” he says, before he gives up on pretense completely and disappears out the door.

"Speaking of our last night, you brought your letters, right?"

Bucky yawns, rolls over onto his back. "Sure did. Don't know what for, though."

"Really? You're still on this?" She could punch him, and she would, if it could knock some sense into him. She thought he'd grow out of it when he started applying to colleges instead of just saying he would. 

"I just mean," Bucky says, looking dejected before he buries his face in his arms. “I didn’t get one from Rhode Island.”

“So? That’s probably a good thing. Imagine spending four years in Rhode Island.”

“No, it’s--there’s no way Steve hasn’t gotten into MIT. You should’ve read the letter of recommendation Pierce wrote. The guy’s an asshole, but that fellowship Steve did is enough to get him in anywhere.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, then, “oh. You applied to the one in California, didn’t you.”

Bucky nods again. “Yep.”

“Well that’s gonna suck.”

“Yep.”

Bucky rolls over with a groan and they move in tandem to sit up against the headboard. 

“Maybe some space will be good for you. I’m not,” Natasha adds, as Bucky's shoulders drop, “suggesting breaking up your eternal soul-bond, or whatever. Just not living in each other’s pockets. I mean, how much can you really grow as a person when you’re stuck in the same place? If anything, you’ll probably be stronger for it.”

“Thanks, Mr Brightside.” Bucky shakes his head, letting loose a few extra strands of hair from his artfully tussled ponytail. “Ain’t worried about that. Yeah, I wanna get the hell outta that town, but you know what Steve’s like. He just can’t stay outta trouble. How am I gonna protect him all the way across the other side of the country?”

Natasha fights to keep the surprise out of her expression. A year ago, Bucky would’ve fought anyone that accused him of having feelings, like a true bad bitch. Being with Steve seemed to knock something loose in him, a kernel of humanity and tenderness that was buried under years of protective apathy. He looks happier, lighter for it.

"I don't have the heart to tell him I just wanna bum around for a while, keep working at the repair shop, you know."

"What's he gonna do?"

"Well, he's definitely going to college, that's for damn sure, but honestly? He wants to join the police force." 

They share a smile, Bucky's lips pressed together like a secret. "A cop with a criminal boyfriend,” Natasha says, “that's priceless."

"Right?"

Natasha buries her laugh into a pillow. When she resurfaces, Bucky's glaring despondently at his own hands like they're the one thing keeping him from true nirvana. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“You say that like he didn’t lose his shit the last time we were apart for more than a week,” Bucky says. “But, yeah. I know he’ll be okay.”

Natasha lets the pause ring out for effect. “Will you?” She expects a joking response, and she’s mostly asking for her own benefit because, just like Bucky, love makes her selfish. Maybe he gets that because he shrugs, smiles, says, “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

“You’re done running away?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No one lets go of anything.”

“Not gonna get stabbed by crusty punks and die in a back alley in Chi-town?”

“You get stabbed one time,” he mutters. “I’m not exactly eager to repeat that, so no. I won’t drag you back into my shit.”

“No, idiot,” Natasha says, shoving him, “you won’t get into any more shit.”

“Okay!” Bucky holds his hands up in surrender as she jabs him in the ribs. “Ow, stop.”

She does, only to pull him into a hug that he returns without complaint. “I’ll be okay too, thanks for asking.”

Bucky’s expression is nothing short of fond and to be on the receiving end of it melts the last shards of ice in Natasha’s heart. “Never had any doubt.”

//

By the last night her liver and the rest of her body are starting to regret what is essentially a six day bender, but it's the Russian in her that accepts the drinks Thor pours for her, and the challenge to match Jane shot for shot. 

"For a skinny nerd, you can handle your drink," Natasha says, before she downs shot number seven. 

Jane's two shots ahead, raises her fist in triumph as she slaps the glass down on the bar. "College preparation," she says, then lets out a loud "whoo!" for emphasis. 

Someone pulls at Natasha’s arm, dragging her over to the middle of the room where everyone is arranged in a circle, but not before she snags the bottle of U’luvka Tony laid out for her at the beginning of the night. 

“Oh no, is this a cult thing?” 

Kate laughs, a brilliant flash of a smile, and pulls her down. “Never have I ever,” she says, “you’re up.”

Bucky immediately chimes in. “Hell no, Natalia always wins. I can tell you for sure I’ve never made a yort out of beaver skins.” She doesn’t know if she should be offended by what Bucky is saying, but mostly she’s just fucking drunk.

“How do you win this game?” Bruce asks. He doesn’t look the least bit drunk, and Natasha takes that as a challenge. She’s going to fuck him up. 

“Get as drunk as possible,” at least three people say in unison. The lights are turned down so low she can’t make anyone out, except for Bucky, who’s shaking his head in anticipation.

“This one’s for you, James,” she says, taking a swig of vodka. “Never have I ever tried to sell a kidney on the black market.”

All heads turn to him.

“You know what,” he says, taking a swig of his own drink, “I’m not even gonna try explaining that one.” When it’s his turn, he says, with payback in his eyes, “Never have I ever crashed my dad’s jeep into a retirement home.” Natasha takes her drink with her head held high, refusing to lose in what quickly becomes a competition in public embarrassment and shame. They are the both of them shameless tonight.

“Never have I ever almost been eaten by a mongoose at the zoo,” Natasha says, and Bucky shoots back, “Never have I ever taunted a mongoose into trying to eat someone at the zoo.”

“Never have I ever stripped naked at a wedding.”

“Never have I ever used prayer as birth control.”

Both Natasha and Sharon drink at the last one, which causes an all around laugh and Sharon to blush into Rhodey’s shoulder. Natasha’s U’luvka is mostly gone and she’s past the stage of physically feeling the effect of alcohol, on her stomach, at least. Her head is a different story. 

She makes it back to the bar when someone turns the music down, and then Tony climbs onto the bar with a glass of champagne and a spoon, shouts, “Listen up, future collegians.” He adds, “and Bucky,” tipping his drink in Bucky’s direction. Bucky raises a middle finger in response. “As you know, tonight is our last night, and I want to make a toast. To all the beautiful people in this room, some that I’ve known for years...”

Natasha feels the room start to spin and she grabs onto the bar. Her fingers skid across the wood and spill her last shot, which makes Jane laugh, a loose cackle of a happy drunk. Tony’s voice starts to bleed in and out of her consciousness until she’s not at the bar anymore, she’s standing on the balcony with Bucky, Steve, and Sam, each with their acceptance letters in hand and passing a blunt around. 

They hold their breath and open their letters at the same time. Natasha all but rips into hers, pot smoke in her eyes. 

“Massachusetts, MIT,” Steve says, trying and failing not to look proud as Sam slaps him on the back in congratulations.

“Florida, Embry-Riddle, oh _hell_ yeah,” Sam says. He’s only got the one letter, but there was never any doubt for him.

When they turn to her, Natasha shrugs, says, “Sydney, Australia, no big deal,” and Sam pulls her into a bone-crushing hug that makes her laugh and drop her other letters.

Silence falls as Bucky glances at his own letters, all four of them, looking like he can’t decide which is more upsetting. Finally he says, “Where the fuck is Zurich?”

“Switzerland, dumbass.” Natasha pauses, shouts, “Wait, you got into Zurich U?”

“ _You_ did this?” Bucky looks like he doesn’t know whether to be pleased or cry. His face twists as he looks to Steve, who’s as proud for Bucky as he isn’t for himself, and then turns back to Natasha. “Of all places, you send me to Switzerland.”

“You got into Cali, too, though?”

“Yeah, but now I _have_ to go to Europe.”

Natasha leans up to kiss his cheek. “The world is too small for you, big fish.” 

It’s too sappy for her m.o., but luckily Bucky knows how to ruin any moment. Suddenly he’s picking her up and swinging her around until they topple backwards into the hot tub, a flail of limbs and feelings. As soon as she hits the water she goes under, laughing, everything going dark and vacant, easy for her to slip into, filling her up inside. She resurfaces on the beach, half-covered in sand, hours or minutes later, a slave to the timeslip. The sand is soft and still warm on her skin, and the ocean lays itself out before her, a postcard greeting. The emptiness in her chest is enough to swallow the ocean whole. She is alone save for the sounds of the shifting sand and the wind coasting across the cliffs.

When she wakes the ocean is still there, a morning lit, insurmountable unknown. Even the sun is nothing in comparison, a dot, a spotlight. A movement startles her through the haze of her mind. 

Clint.

Clint is there, too.

He spreads his legs out in front of him. If it wasn’t for his bright purple swimming trunks he’d disappear right into the sand. His hair, his complexion, were made for days like this. She drinks in the sight.

“Look at this,” he’s saying. He spreads his arms wide, as if they could encompass the whole ocean, as if it’s nothing but distance. He looks at her, his eyes steely and piercing, and he sees right through her.

 _Look at you_ , Natasha thinks.

He lends her his hand and she takes it, lets herself be led down the beach to where the water kitten-licks the sand. He’s still got a hold of her when they’re in up to their knees, their waists. They move with the ocean: a dance. He tightens his grip when the waves crash over them. She takes a breath and lets the ocean swallow her up.


End file.
